Peaceful Darkness
by Slovenskych
Summary: After a lifetime of living under Russia's shadow, Latvia is starting to doubt his usefulness as a nation. How will Russia react when he sees the youngest of his Baltics contemplating suicide? Oneshot.


**This is just one of many angsty scenes I have floating around in my head for the Baltics. I may put them all together one day, but that would be a VERY sad story...:( Translations are at the bottom. Please review and let me know what you think!**

Riavis awoke in an uncomfortable position. The hard mattress of his bed seemed to be spiking nails into his back. He forced his eyelids open to stare at the ceiling. It matched his mood: A gloomy grey color, with a few cracks and spider webs in the corners. Funny how they were so busy cleaning the rest of the mansion that they had no time to even scrape off spider webs in their own bedroom. If it could be considered a bedroom.

_Nē, it is a prison cell._ Raivis thought bitterly. He was in such a sour mood that for a moment he considered going on strike. He was just going to lie here, in this painful position on the bed, looking up at the ceiling as if he were dead. He felt dead. And why not? All Russia would do was beat him again. Beat him until he fell unconscious. Maybe then he'd get some real sleep, not the shallow skimming in and out of nightmares he experienced every night.

_Maybe Russia would kill me._ For some reason, he found this comforting. You can't feel pain when you're dead, right? And then he'd no longer be of use to Russia, and they would bury him in a field of margrietiņas, the Baltic Sea lapping lazily at a beautiful wide coastline in the distance...

Raivis closed his eyes, imagining the sweet kiss of a cool breeze on a clear morning. The brilliance of the sun when it rose, fiery reds and oranges painted across the entire ocean in a beautiful watercolor. He could hear the screeches of the seabirds, the laughter of his people as they played on the beach. An old song began playing in his head,

_Nava tiesa, nava tiesa,  
Ka Saulīte nakti guļ.  
Vai rītā tur uzlēca,  
Kur rietēja vakarā?_

Raivis was torn from his dreams with a painful twist of his stomach. All at once, the sunrise, the laughter, and the breeze vanished like disappating smoke. His head was bombarded by the awful truths of the present: He heard mothers screaming as their children were taken away, the yells of protest from his men as they were forced to give up their livestock to the collectives. The freezing cold that sunk into his bones no matter how many blankets he slept with, the hunger that knawed at his stomach no matter how much he ate. His people were suffering, and there was nothing he could do about it. His children, who made him to be who he was, were being abused and scattered like defenseless sheep, and what did he do about it?

_Nekas._

Raivis felt himself sink into a pit of self-hate. What kind of a nation let his people be harmed like this? His people tried to fight Russia – Did _he?_ A chill went down his spine at the image of him squaring up to the Russian, easily twice his size and with unprecidented strength. Russia could easily kill him with one lazy blow to the head, could snap his arms off and feed him to the dogs if he so pleased. But he didn't. He held Raivis here, like some kind of house-maid, or a puppet to get drunk. Things could be worse, Raivis supposed. But the only reason they _weren't _– the only reason he wasn't chained to a wall in the basement with Prussia – was because _he never fought back._

Riavis's throat tightened and his fists curled around the thin bedsheet. Hot tears began to well up out of his eyes and roll down his pale cheeks.

_I never fought back._ He repeated in his head, the words stinging him and making the tears flow more freely. Then a horrible thought blazed in his mind:

_I have failed my people. I deserve to die._

A cloud of depression hung over him like poison, and he was barely aware of what his body was doing. Raivis slowly sat up from the bed, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He stood, the thin flannell of his night clothes falling loosely around him, his bare feet barely making a sound as he opened the door and made towards the stairs. A quick glance told him there was nobody in this section of the mansion, and so he tip-toed to the kitchen. He wasn't sure why he was there – his eyes wandered around the shiny countertops and huge stove, as if looking for something...then he was walking again, and stopped in front of the rack holding the utility knives. They were hung on the wall in a neat row, each one glistening and deadly sharp. With unshaking hands, Raivis reached forward and removed one from its slot. He brought it down and turned it over in his hands a few times, feeling the smoothness of the handle and testing the grip. Then he held it out in front of him, staring at the smooth edge of the blade with a type of derranged wonder.

_Will it hurt?_ Was his first thought, and then, _Does it matter?_

"I suggest you put that down before you harm somebody, da?"

Riavis jumped, the knife slipping in his now trembling hand and cutting a deep slit into his left palm. He gasped as blood began to seep out of the wound and drip off his fingers, but he kept the knife gripped in his right hand as he turned around to face the man he hated.

Russia had somehow entered the kitchen without him noticing, and was now leaning on the counter looking unamused. His violet eyes went to Raivis's bleeding hand, and for a terrifying moment he thought he saw a spark of bloodlust.

"You see what happens when you play with other people's toys, Malenʹkaya Latviya? I do not wish for you to get hurt."

_Pupu mizas!_ Raivis felt hate boiling up inside of him, and though his body shook violently he clenched his teeth and glared. Russia's eyes then slid to the trembling knife in his right hand, blood glimmering on its tip. His face fell into a warning frown.

"I do not like knives. Put it back, Latviya."

"Nekad."

Russia's eyes narrowed to voilet slits."_What_ did you say?"

"Nekad! Es nekad nodot to atpakaļ, jums slims bastards!"

Russia moved so fast that Raivis had no time to react. He tried to dart out of the man's reach, but two crushing hands gripped his waist and pushed him into a cabinet. Huge gloved fingers closed around his neck and dug into his jaw, squishing his lips together so that he could barely talk. Raivis forced himself to look into those blazing violets – those two voids of endless insanity and secrets. Russia's cold breath stung his face as he whispered in a low dangerous voice,

" Никогда. You say _Никогда_, you ungrateful little brat. I am your master, and you _will_ speak Russian."

_I have to stand up to him now...I must be strong for my people..._

It was difficult to speak with Russia's fingers digging into his cheeks, but Riavis looked his master striaght in the eyes as he said,

"Nekad."

Violets narrowed and a dark aura surrounded them, causing Riavis to tremble even more than before. Russia's hand slid from his jaw to his throat, and squeezed so that Raivis could barely beathe. He brought up the knife with the Latvian's own blood still shimmering on it and held it inches from Riavis's face.

"Do you know what my favorite color is, Malenʹkaya Latviya?" His voice was back to it's normal childish state, which it always did before he harmed someone. " Kрасный. My favorite color is red. Do you know why, малютка?" Raivis was of course unable to answer, and a sick smile spread across Russia's face as he eyed the knife. "Because it symbolizes the blood spilled by the workers and farmers for their emancipation. It also comes from the Russian word 'красивый', da?" His voice fell to a whisper and his eyes lit up as he breathed,

"Beautiful."

Suddenly, the tight grip at his throat slackened and the aura fell away. Russia's hands moved to Raivis's face, his touch unusually gentle as the leather of his gloves stroked the pale skin. Raivis felt his skin crawl.

"But you…" Russia's eyes were soft, something Raivis had never imagined was possible. "Even such a beautiful color as red would look grotesque on such a perfect little nation like you." To Raivis's great relief, Russia set aside the knife, but then he took the Latvian's left hand and lifted it between them, causing Raivis to wince in pain. Bright red blood streamed down his arm and smeared in the creases of his palm. Russia's eyes – was that _sorrow?_

"You harm yourself, Latviya. It does not become you at all."

Raivis began to shake again. _How did he know?_ It was really creeping him out, the way Russia's face seemed almost… _concerned_ as his eyes roamed over his marred hand. Panic spiking, Raivis snatched his hand back to his chest. Russia looked him straight in the eye, and he could feel his heart battering against his ribcage. But Russia only stood, picking up the knife and walking over to the sink. The sound of rushing water filled the tense air as he washed off the blood, Raivis watching him in silent terror. When he finished, Russia placed the knife back onto the rack. He turned to look down on Raivis, his face stern.

"Get up."

Raivis scrambled to his feet, suddenly self- conscious that he was still in his night clothes.

"Sit down over there." Russia tilted his head in the direction of the breakfast table, to which Raivis obediently walked past him and sat down in one of the chairs. He watched as Russia opened a cabinet and took out a mixing bowl, then a clean white rag. Ivan's boots clunked as he walked to the table, setting the bowl in front of Raivis. He reached inside his coat. This made Raivis jump in terror and cower against the wall, his eyes wide with fear as he waited for his master to reveal the steel weapon he always hid in the folds of his cloak. But when Russia's large hand emerged from the fabric, it did not hold a metal pipe, but a bottle of vodka. Raivis was confused. Did he want to get him drunk this early?

"I need to clean your wound. Hold out your hand, da?"

Raivis blinked, then shakily held out his hand. Russia grabbed his wrist with a grip Raivis knew could snap bone if he wished. His hand wasn't going anywhere.

"The alcohol will sting a little, but it will clean your wound, da? Prepare yourself, малютка." A mischievous smile rested on Russia's lips as he slowly tipped the glass bottle, clear liquid flowing out and splashing onto Raivis's bleeding hand.

A searing pain like fire screamed in his cut, and Raivis had to bite his tongue not to cry out in pain. He clenched his fist and tried to twist his hand out of Russia's grip, but it didn't budge. He breathed hard through his nose, his eyes watering as the fire continued to burn. At last, there was a thump as Russia set down the vodka bottle and released his grip on Raivis's wrist. The Latvian gasped and cradled his burning hand to his chest. He could feel Russia's gaze boring into him.

"You see, Malenʹkaya Latviya? Harming yourself will get you nowhere. It will only cause you more pain." With that, Russia placed the vodka bottle back into his coat. He turned and left, his heavy boots echoing through the kitchen and leaving Raivis alone with his thoughts.

* * *

**Translations:**

margrietiņas - daisies

Nekas - Nothing

Pupu mizas! - Bullsh**!

Nekad/Никогда - Never

Nekad! Es nekad nodot to atpakaļ, jums slims bastards! - Never! I will never put it down, you sick bastard!

малютка - little one

_Nava tiesa, nava tiesa,  
Ka Saulīte nakti guļ.  
Vai rītā tur uzlēca,  
Kur rietēja vakarā?_

It isn't true, it isn't true  
That the sun sleeps every night.  
Did she rise  
up in the morn  
Where she went down in the eve?

**Thanks for reading! Please review! ^ ^**


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